“Those are your own citizens,” Deloitte said bitterly.
“I agree with Xeno, Colonel, I respect your views, but the time for firmness is here,” Kunstler said. “We cannot allow this to continue. We need to stop it before it gets out of control. I’m authorizing the additional People Security Force officers and the PBI detectives to support Lieutenant Kessler’s program. Lieutenant, you are going to have access to the People Volunteers as you need them. Do what you have to do. And Colonel, if we are forced to call you in, I am confident that you will do your duty.”
“I know what my duty is. You don’t need to tell me. I’ve been doing it for 30 years.”
“But now you are doing it for a new country, a better country,” Kunstler said.
“Well, then I should go,” Deloitte said, standing. “Looks like I need to do some more training for my brigade. Oh wait, I can’t do any training for three days because I have a mandatory shutdown because one of my guys wolf whistled at some E-4 and I now have to do three days of sexual harassment training instead of combat training.”
“Colonel, I sometimes wonder about your priorities,” Xeno snapped.
“My priority is accomplishing my mission,” Deloitte said as he headed toward the door. “I’m still wondering about yours.”
7.
Deputy Ted Cannon was rebelling – if he was going to get called into the station at 7:00 AM on a Sunday morning, he was damn well wearing his tan uniform.
He drove down Main Street as he always did, heading out from his house where he used to live with his wife before she took off, and slowed as he saw something up ahead. There were two PSF cruisers, front to front, blocking most of the road at 5th. A checkpoint – four PSF officers stood about, one of them gesturing to a guy in a pick-up truck they had stopped. The officers stepped back and looked into the bed, then peered inside the cab, and finally waved him through after he showed his ID.
In the People’s Republic, they were big on ID. Apparently somewhere along the way, identification had stopped being racist because they were always asking for it.
Cannon rolled up in his cruiser slowly, intending to pass, but the lead officer held up his palm. Cannon stopped and rolled down his window. The PSF officer was one of the new ones that Cannon had seen around the station. He stepped forward, looking Cannon over.
“Where’s your black uniform,” he asked.
“In the hamper.”
“You’re supposed to wear the new uniform.”
“Am I working for you now?” Cannon snapped. The officer frowned.
“Where is your ID?”
“In my ass,” Cannon answered. “What the hell is this roadblock for?”
“This is a checkpoint,” said the PSF officer.
“No shit,” said Cannon. “Why do you have a checkpoint here in the middle of town on a Sunday morning?”
“Because we’re tired of your hick friends’ bullshit.”
“Get out of my way,” Cannon said. The PSF officer seemed to think about it for a moment, then thought better of it and stepped aside. Cannon drove through and down the street to the station.
He parked outside in the lot, having managed to snag one of the now-scarce empty spaces. With the station packed with newcomers, he often had to park down the street.
There seemed to be an unusual level of activity for a Sunday – officers were walking about, some in tactical gear. They all stared at him and his old school uniform. Cannon went inside.
Kessler saw him and scowled upon seeing the deputy’s uniform. It was the only tan one in the station. Everyone else was now in black. And there were long weapons and other gear lying about – what had been a friendly local sheriff’s station now looked paramilitary, and distinctly unwelcoming.
Cannon approached Lieutenant Kessler, who was consulting with several sergeants.
“Is there an operation going on?”
“Why do you want to know?”
“Because this is my town.”
“You’re not involved. Stay out of the way.”
“Where’s the Sheriff?”
“Relieved. This is my station now.” She turned to one of the sergeants. “You make sure that Officer Cannon stays off his cell phone and doesn’t leave until the operation’s over.”
“What are you talking about?” Cannon asked.
“Oh, you’ll see soon enough. We are reasserting control,” Kessler said, walking away.
“Where’d you sleep?” asked Pastor Bellman, leaning against the railing of the stairs up to the church. The doors behind him were wide open. It was still an hour before the 9:30 service and it was still cool.
Turnbull smiled. “I got myself a room. Okay, it’s a garage.”
“Did you already get your stuff out of my handyman’s room?” the pastor asked. “There was a towel and some paperback book. Looked like porn.”
“I wish it was porn. Yeah, I got them. So who am I meeting this morning?”
“Somebody right up your alley, I think. Just don’t make any sudden moves.”
“Oh yeah? Sounds edgy. Should I have brought my AK?”
“Not sure that would help you a whole lot if you got on his wrong side. He’s that way.” Bellman pointed to a tree line a few hundred meters north of the church across an overgrown field.
“Go inside the tree line about 100 meters north and there’s a creek. Head west. Keep going about a mile. And then you’ll find the mystery man.” Pastor Bellman smiled. “More likely he’ll find you first.”
“He knows I’m coming, right?”
“Oh yeah. He’s not the kind of guy you want to surprise. Better get going. People are starting to show up.” Turnbull noted a Chevrolet pulling into the parking lot with a family.
“How many do you get on your average Sunday, Pastor?”
“A lot more than I used to. Half the churches around here are closed down now. People had either left or they’ve been foreclosed on since they cancelled the religious property tax exemption. I guess we’re just stubborn.”
“You know it’s only going to get worse for you guys?”
“I know. But a little oppression hones the faith.”
“I guess so. Just don’t let yourself get too honed. I’ll see you after the service, if your mystery man lets me live.”
Bellman smiled and went inside the sanctuary, Turnbull turned and began his long walk across the grass towards the woods. The heat, the stickiness, the bugs his feet kicked up in the unruly grass – it was like walking through the savannah.
People just sort of assumed that America was always a civilized continent, that there was nothing wild about it, but they couldn’t have been more wrong. There was something primeval, something untamed here, almost jungle-like, when you stepped out of civilization’s realm. It was masked by all the tens of thousands of square miles of pavement and buildings. But it was out there, at the fringes. Something wild.
Turnbull got to the tree line. Inside it was dark, and as soon as he stepped inside rays of sunlight streamed down through the canopy of leaves. It smelled rich and earthy, a different world.
His booted feet crunched as he stepped clumsily on the detritus littering the forest floor. That cued him to shift into stealth mode. He slowed up, watching the ground in front of him, carefully calculating where he placed his feet on each step. Now he was back at Fort Benning, at Dahlonega, at Hulbert, walking through the woods on patrol. Fifty meters inside the tree line he stopped and took a knee and waited, getting used to it, hearing the noises of the forest, and just as importantly, hearing the silences.
After about ten minutes he felt comfortable and at home, so he arose and began walking, each step calculated, each step careful. After a couple minutes, he came to the creek. It was slow moving and quiet, maybe a meter or two across, most of it less than a foot deep, but there were some pools where he could not make out the bottom. A dark green frog leapt off the bank and into the water with a plunk. Turnbull froze and listened. Nothing.